


Kerberos

by kuill



Series: orbiting Pluto [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Slow Burn, pre-kerberos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7663246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuill/pseuds/kuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a skilled pilot, Keith. I hear you’ve broken almost every record set by previous batches of recruits.” </p><p>“I hear things about you too. Shirogane, hero of the garrison, forgoing time at simulation to entertain the paparazzi.” Keith smiled testily and paused. "Listen. I might be the garrison's problem child, but I don't <i>need</i> to be helped. I need people like you to stop thinking that I need to be helped."</p><p>-</p><p>Caught up with the rush of military training, discipline, and order, Keith Kogane and Shirogane Takashi collide in an unlikely meeting. This is a oneshot about pre-Kerberos / pre-Voltron events, life in the garrison, and everything else besides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kerberos

**Author's Note:**

> **Part one of a ~~two-part~~ companion series.** (I wanted it to be a two part series but there is a very real chance it will become a three-part series instead wow thanks me way 2 go) I wanted to power on and finish the other half of it before I got this posted, but this fic wrestled control away from me and now voila look at this monster, my life is in shambles.
> 
> This story looks at a bunch of Pre-VLD events and is my own personal take on it — partially because I love a thorny Keith/Shiro dynamic (my eternal gratitude to [Micah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrionflower/pseuds/Carrionflower) for this) and because PRE-KERBEROS EVENTS MAKE ME SO WEAK, SOMEONE SAVE ME FROM THIS ETERNAL HELL, NOBODY? REALLY? ALRIGHT, GUESS IT'S JUST ME DIGGING MY OWN GRAVe,
> 
> Last disclaimer: I took extreme liberties with garrison rules / military rules and I am by no means an expert. While I don't think a military institution worth its salt will condone such behaviours as espoused in this fic, and while I also wouldn't be surprised if one did, I just wanted to make all my headcanons squeeze into this fic so here it is :'D 
> 
> Enjoy!!

Adapting to life at the garrison was difficult, not because it tested or stretched the limits, but because it was so dully painfully unbearably mediocre.

If there was one thing that the garrison had it was prestige. After all the bedtime stories had told tales of a mighty garrison that put people on Jupiter’s Ganymede, on Saturn’s Titan. The garrison needed no other name. Drawn like birds to the sun came pilots, engineers, and dreamers just like Keith, all nursing the urge to traverse the edge of the universe itself.

But perhaps prestige was all it had.

On his first day Keith had expected to be taken apart, then remade into a sojourner that could enter the crushing nothingness of space and bring back only glory.

Then, as he discovered the true extent of his talent on the wing, he also discovered other things: the absolute normalness of his squadron mates, how his sergeants believed in learning to fly by the book instead of by practice; most of all he found that dreaming too big and asking for too much landed him time in solitary — if he truly wanted to _fly_ he would have to keep his head down and trudge within the lines marked out for him.

So Keith, shackled by the unbending rules of the garrison, resigned himself to do exactly that.

 

 

Regularly, the garrison organised these team-building exercises, or what Keith had come to appreciate more as the perfect time to demonstrate just how little he could fit in. Earlier they’d had to split into their squadrons, three a team, and simulate a search and rescue mission in the icy core of Neptune. Of course Keith hadn’t had a single turn at the yoke, and was always the one lowered down into the weak atmosphere on a slender line. In the latest test run the ship had lurched and the stretcher had slipped from Keith’s hands to be lost in the depths of a crevasse. Tempers had soared and of course the test had to be aborted.

Somehow it was always Keith’s fault. It didn’t matter if he touched it or not. If he wasn’t the black sheep when he was enlisted, he certainly had been listed as one by now. He mutely took all the reprimands with an even gaze, resolute. Over the shoulder of the half-blind major failing to tear him a new one, his two other teammates were giving him looks reserved for him only: the half-secretive glance of someone ashamed to be seen looking but threatening hell if called out for it. Keith focused his attention again on the major, his dull grey uniform, the starched beret. To let such a man wear a garrison gold crest was an insult.

“Understood, sir,” said Keith without inflection when the ageing man was finally done, and there was no doubt that he refused to understand.

Instead of dismissing them or sending them (him) for discipline, the major beckoned him forward. Keith knew what was coming. As the garrison’s problem child, he’d gotten his share of rehabilitation and then some. To walk out of the simulation room through the side doors was to embark on a march of shame: at the end of the twisting, sanitised corridors waited a deceptively cosy room where therapists and counsellors got to work prying him open with pretty words and a veneer of empathy.

The major stopped halfway, not even bothering to send Keith to the doorstep, signalling him to be a good boy and get it over and done with. Keith tilted his chin up and walked. There was no remorse, no guilt to be had.

He scanned his garrison pass at the electronic lock. With a cheerful beep the light turned green and the door hissed open. It smelled faintly, as it always did, of hot cocoa and fresh toast. Like everything else in the garrison there was a calculated order to the messiness of this room. No two beanbags were the same color, the greying couch purposefully kept just the slightest bit worn to imply regular use, and the faucet at the kitchenette sink dripping every so often to instill the idea of hope even in a charred, lifeless desert.

There was, however, a single thing out of place: the counsellor. This counsellor was not too old to understand the harshness of regimental training; in fact the man waiting for him was a cookie-cutter stencil of garrison perfection. This was a cadet — no, a sergeant, and a brilliant one at that. A ribbon was stitched under the garrison’s pilot insignia: reds and greens proudly framing a gold medal of honor. Now what was this sergeant doing parading his achievements for no willing audience?

The sergeant looked up, not expecting Keith just yet. Clutched in his hands was a the garrison-issued counsellor's sweater, the correct fluffiness to evoke a sense of approachability where there would otherwise be none.

“Sir.” Rather than come to an attention for a salute, Keith strode in and slouched into his usual brick red beanbag, quickly marking out his space. To his immense surprise, the sergeant looked admonished, maybe even a little sheepish. Keith, having spent countless hours in this room, certainly was and felt more at home than him.

The man sat on the couch at the far end of the room, putting the entire distance of the den between them. He sat ramrod straight, filling out the grey garrison uniform in all the right ways. Keith, in the gaudy orange suits for privates, forced himself not to feel small. “My apologies, Keith. I would’ve come sooner and more prepared, but I was held up at a press conference.”

 _The garrison’s wasting this guy’s time, too._ Ignoring the attempt to open up, Keith tested him, “Aren’t you going to get changed? I’m having a mild crisis here. not knowing if I should address you as ‘counsellor’ or ‘sergeant’. You know, garrison rules. Wouldn’t want to get flung into solitary again.”

The man raised his fingers to muss the tuft of jet black fringe sweeping across his forehead. Keith almost felt bewildered. It’d been so long since he’d seen anyone so at ease here in the garrison. “Please, none of that. Shiro will do.”

The pieces quickly fell together. Legendary ace pilot, far surpassing all limits known to any garrison flighter, the single evidence that man could _really_ fly. Keith snorted.

“Just plain old Shiro, huh.”

In reply, Shirogane gave a lopsided shrug and a smile that matched it. It was magnetic in an inexplicable way, and that made Shirogane truly dangerous. He was the perfect breed to represent the garrison and its dirty work; civilians would start worshipping the sun if Shirogane asked them nicely. Keith’s insides recoiled from that sanguine, press-conference pleasantness, but he kept strict hold on his expression so he would give nothing away. The realisation that Shirogane off-screen was as plain and dull as the Shirogane on-screen almost came as a betrayal, but he really should’ve seen it coming. The garrison was known, after all, for mass producing its soldiers.

“Anyway, now that you’ve seen me in this getup there’s no use changing into this prickly sweater.” Shirogane put the clothes on the couch, the square edge lining up with the sofa. “I’ll get straight to the point.”

Keith noted with false airiness, “The garrison trained you well.”

Shirogane did not engage the jibe. “You’re a skilled pilot, Keith. I hear you’ve broken almost every record set by previous batches of privates.”

“I hear things about you too. Shirogane, hero of the garrison, forgoing time at simulation to entertain the paparazzi.” Keith smiled testily and paused. Shirogane, too, waited for Keith to speak again. Easily, he continued after a few seconds had passed. “Alright, lay it on me. Where's the catch?”

If Shirogane was frustrated, nothing showed. The man was unmovable. Keith wanted nothing more than to get under his skin, force a reaction out of him like he’d done to all the other majors who’d tried to intervene.

Shirogane relented. “But,” he said calmly, making sure Keith knew it was a concession to take the bait, not an accidental one, “You’re not going to shine here if you keep getting yourself carded for rebelliousness. Flying is a team effort, not a solo one.”

“So you think I’m doing it on purpose? Look, I’m the best pilot in my cohort and what do they make me? The _sweeper._ They don’t let me fly faster than the slowest ones.” Keith’s own irritation, an old familiar friend, began to bubble at Shirogane’s methodological observations. “If there’s anyone who deserves to be rebellious, it’s me.”

“Flying means sacrifice as well, Keith. Your teammates sacrificed a lot to be here, too. They—”

“They aren’t ready. I am. I came here to fly, not hold my teammate’s hand and coddle them and tell them where the acceleration stick is even after they trash my quarters.”

Shirogane’s gaze faltered, unreadable, and Keith bit back the rest of his frustration. Every word was ammunition Shirogane could use against him, and he hadn’t intended to give Shirogane so much to work with so soon. He lowered his eyes bitterly, crossing his arms over his chest.

The silence stewed a few moments. Keith, used to controlling it, had forgotten how it felt like being on the receiving end of a lack of a reply. Quite guiltily, he realised maybe he didn’t want to chase Shirogane away. He was the closest thing Keith had left of his dreams. It was a selfish reason but Keith _had_ been following the landing on Neptune’s Triton, learning as much as he could from the press conferences, preparing himself for the next opening for the landing on Kerberos. That moon was the final frontier of his known world, and Shirogane was the only thread connecting him to it. Shirogane had everything Keith ever wanted and more.

Shirogane stood and Keith’s head involuntarily snapped up to watch, shifting into overdrive to predict the man’s next movements, but Shirogane only scratched his head. Underneath that simple movement was tiredness, the kind that lurked within the bones. Soldiers always moved if they had to, but there were signs that the body had taken enough; the subtle strain of a muscle, a smile not quite reaching the eyes. Keith tried to imagine how long a press conference needed to be if he wanted to drain the rest of Shirogane’s composure.

“The majors thought that having you speak to another ace pilot would help. Guess talking doesn’t work, so I’ll just be blunt. Do you want us to help you, Keith?”

“I don’t _need_ to be helped.” Keith stood, too, making up for his height with a venomous glare. “I need people like you to stop thinking that I need to be helped.”

“Understood.” Shirogane picked up the dark sweater, holding it in a loose grip. “Thanks for sharing.”

Shirogane’s other hand twitched, the man visibly debating whether to offer a handshake. In the silence that continued, Shirogane glanced over Keith’s shoulder at the digital clock mounted above the door.

“You’re dismissed for the night, cadet. Go rest up.”

Keith stared blankly. “Couldn’t you at least tell me if this is going to be a regular thing? It’s disruptive and some advance notice would be appreciated.”

“Truth be told, I don’t know. Most of our plans are in the air right now. But you have a point, I’ll make sure to talk to the major.”

“Right.”

As he turned to leave Shirogane gave him another one of his open, unguarded smiles, as if their conversation had never happened and no animosity had passed between them at all. Keith ground his jaws together, feeling oddly used, a toy to help pass the time. As was the norm, he supposed. After all, he was nothing but the black sheep that would eventually be bleached white again.

Maybe it was better that they’d never meet again. He already had enough of a facade to maintain. He didn’t need to deal with Shirogane’s, too.

 

 

“I’m reading a drop in internal pressure,” yelled his pilot, roughly tugging at the yoke. The simulator responded with a vengeful jerk and alarms screeched. “Kogane, do your damn job.”

“I _am_ doing my job! You’re not building enough accelera —” another jerk and Keith skidded across the cramped control room to slam into the engineer. Behind them both, metal creaked and Keith knew something had just broken. “Shit! Can you _watch_ it?”

“Kogane, please let us have _one_ simulation without an argument. Just fix the thing!” The engineer shoved at him and he landed in an undignified tumble on the metal floor. Keith snarled in pain.

“I’m not an engineer! It's not my job!”

“Well I’ve got my hands full with unstable hydraulics, which is a much more pressing problem.” The engineer snapped, eyes glued on the screen they’d just battered. “Be a team player.”

An awkward, meaningful, yet scathing silence descended heavily in the cramped jet and Keith took a deep breath. There it was, uttered by sergeants and majors and lieutenants alike: _Be a team player._ Everyone knew that the phrase by now practically _belonged_ to Keith, what with how often it was directed at him. Ignoring a slow blossom of pain across his cheek, Keith dragged himself upright, heading over to another of the engineer’s panels.

Up at the cockpit, the blue HUD finally lost patience and turned red and Keith wanted to manhandle the yoke away from that inept novice because an airlift wasn’t even supposed to be anything too complex and they were flying in clear weather but well, who was he to say? He wasn’t the damn pilot. Hell, he wasn’t even the engineer — but who was he to object, right? He had no place to do it. He never had any place. Angrily, he jabbed his fingers at the buttons, trying to navigate the alien UI.

“Comms, comms,” the pilot shouted without taking his eyes off the screen. “We’ve got a incoming signal. Kogane?”

“Working on it,” grumbled Keith, glancing at his original comms screen. It was a friendly frequency, signal strong. Not any cause for alarm.

He turned back to the pressure systems just as the simulator gave another dangerous lurch. Keith forced his lunch back down.

“Answer your damn phone, Kogane.”

“Well do you want me fixing internal pressure or answering a transmission from blue forces?” Keith snapped back. No response save a _fuck!_ from the engineer which wasn’t helpful in the least. Before anyone could protest, he eagerly abandoned the pressure systems, slipped his headset on and hurriedly swiped at his screen.

Blood smeared lightly across the LED screen, and surprised, Keith didn’t think to warn his teammates about the sudden warning that appeared on his other monitor.

With one violent shake, the simulator whined before the screens cut to black. _SIMULATION FAILED_ flashed accusatorially on every undamaged screen, backlighting the dash of his blood across the panel.

When did he injure himself? He didn’t remember cutting himself on anything. His cheek stung again, and when he rubbed at it his glove came off stained. In its corner, the faulty panel had warped, but no metal had snapped. The doors to the simulator opened with a hiss, light from outside spilling into the darkened room and casting the major’s shadow across the floor.

Something glinted and Keith’s eyes were drawn to it. His crewmates passed him without another word, but as the engineer walked by his watch caught the light. The watch, then, but they weren’t allowed to wear rings, watches, or anything metal aboard any ship lest accidents like this happened. With a smooth flex of his arm the engineer’s watch disappeared under his jumper sleeve.

Another smudge of blood was on the ground, marking where he’d fallen after being pushed. Keith dashed his sleeve across the comms panel to clean off the blood as best as he could before leaving.

All eyes were on him and his cut-up face as he exited the simulator. The major was wearing a spectacular frown.

“Can I at least go to the infirmary to disinfect my wound before I report for punishment?”

The major didn’t respond for a few moments, but eventually held up his watch. “Ten minutes. Go.”

The throng of cadets parted urgently for him, giving him the look that screamed _heretic,_ pressing up against each other in their haste to not get too close to him. If it hadn’t already been eradicated he’d think he’d been infected with leprosy from some mutant rat in the hangars.

He hadn’t missed ace pilot Shirogane Takashi standing in the observation deck at the second floor. Everything that happened in the simulator also happened live, with the barest of delays, on a wide LCD screen for critique and advice; a morbid cinema of avoidable failure and poor judgement.

From his vantage point Shirogane would’ve seen it all.

It gave him a certain perverse satisfaction to walk out of the simulation room with a thin trickle of blood down his neck. For the first time his footsteps were light.

 

 

He knew the hangar better than his own barracks. It was drafty and sometimes there were snakes and the occasional feral cat but most importantly, Alpha was there waiting for him, infinitely patient in only that way machines could be.

Alpha was an old, slightly antiquated hoverbike with outstretched wings and a forked tail raised high in the air. Alpha also belonged to one of the sergeants, but _eh._ The bike was all gorgeous curves and sleek metal, jet black against marble white, and when it lifted into the air its exposed insides beat lightning blue. But what made Alpha ride like no other were the strong lift fans in its two fuselages, each wing able to rotate slightly just like fins, and there was no rogue air current it couldn’t tame.

In the half light Keith rested a gloved hand against it, letting the cold seep into his fingertips. Alpha’s paint was flaking off along the corners and Keith yearned to care for it properly, polish it up and give it the shine it so deserved. Hoverbikes were volatile aircraft and it took a pilot of respectable skill to command one. Alpha was an orphaned ship, left in a desolate corner of the hangar because its owner simply couldn’t fly it. Keith didn’t want to begin thinking about what he’d seen.

He gently hoisted himself into the seat. By now it had already memorised his shape and fit him like a glove. Eagerly, he slid the duplicate key into its slot. The crystal whine of a hoverbike echoed around the hangar.

Keith looked up, his own key pressed between thumb and index finger, still unturned. Beneath him, Alpha was still.

That sound was not from his machine.

Said hoverbike was pulling into the hangar. Keith glanced at the row of bikes, each casting its own solid shadow on the tarmac beneath. It would be child’s play to hide his ever being here.

He was stiffening to hop off when he made out the rider's shape, the broad shoulders and viciously straight posture.

 _Shirogane._ Keith abandoned his plans to hide. He’d been dying to see if Shirogane would rat him out, destroy his trust like everyone else did. It’d been three days since their meeting and he was frustrated, confused, and dying for an answer. Now was the perfect time to test him properly.

Pulling up a hoverbike’s length away, Shirogane set his own hoverbike to idle and slipped off his grey helmet. His other hand, as Keith expected, went to the shock of dark hair over his forehead.

Without looking at the bandage pressed to Keith’s cheek, Shirogane said easily, “Thought I’d find you here.”

Keith’s fingers tightened around his hoverbike’s handles. “It’s past lights out.”

“And borrowing garrison equipment for a joyride warrants solitary confinement.”

“But they _are_ fun to fly, aren’t they?” Keith allowed himself a smirk and wished the moon was full so he could see Shirogane’s expression more clearly. As he spoke he twisted the key to his own hoverbike and it perked into life.

“Unparalleled.” Shirogane hefted his helmet to put it on again. Keith didn’t ever ride with one.

Something tense and fierce crackled between them, tenuous and so strangely shaped that Keith couldn’t begin to place it. There was acquiescence, challenge. Open mutiny.

_Jealousy._

“Is your cheek alright?” Shirogane asked abruptly, with real concern.

Keith ignored him. “Are hoverbikes easier to fly than spacecrafts?” He gave his hoverbike’s acceleration handle a fierce twist. Wind picked up and forced fine dust to billow around them.

“Never piloted a real one before,” replied Shirogane, unfazed, voice muffled from behind his helmet. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Without warning, Keith yanked his wrist and Alpha lunged hungrily off the ground. Warm, metal-heated air soaked through his boots as Alpha struggled to find their center of gravity, and then they were slicing through the frigid night winds. He chanced a look over his shoulder just in time to see Shirogane’s hoverbike easing into movement, smooth like dolphin surfacing to breathe. Everything the man did was ridiculously perfect, and he wanted to be the first to make him fail.

Keith kept his torso low, focusing on the icy wind tearing at his exposed face. Screw the simulator; now _this_ was flying. Alpha responded eagerly to every flick of his wrist, every tilt of his body. He’d grown to love how the hoverbike’s forked tail gave him maximum rotation, how it crested winds like frothy waves. Alpha moved like a wild animal, just like Keith.

He tore across the barren land, shadowy rocks and skeletal trees racing past them, while all around and above them the dome of stars burned apathetically on.

Another glance confirmed that Shirogane was still hot on his tail, barely a few lengths behind him. With a smug hum, Keith entertained the ugly thought taking shape in his mind. Well, ace pilots did need the training. And Keith was just a private. Privates had nothing to lose.

He swerved as if to turn, angling his body, making a show out of it. Shirogane took the bait, mirrored him. And at the very last moment Keith ground the brakes roughly. The free-flowing wind coughed and clashed with Alpha’s engines. Sand flew into the air, an impenetrable, unforgiving cloud.

Alpha listed and spun, Keith rocking with the momentum. With that reckless twirl the noses of their hoverbikes threatened to crash. Shirogane’s eyes widened in _real_ panic.

The other hoverbike groaned as Shirogane _pulled_ to swerve out of the way, and as they passed each other Keith actually heard the hoverbike give a strained _click_ as Shirogane forced his engine into reverse.

Brief sparks flew as Keith drove his wing against Shirogane’s machine to list him further off balance. The fragile machine hurtled straight into the addled currents Keith left behind, and its engine cried in protest as it disappeared with its rider into the thick dust.

Keith smirked, righted Alpha, tapped his finger in a brief celebratory pat. He hadn’t raced like this in all the five years he’d been in the garrison. It was heaven and hell at once. He skirted over the sands until they were flying parallel to a low plateau, taking advantage of the lower air pressures along the steep sides. Alpha gave him a warning grumble and Keith relented, re-adjusting the gears until they were flying smoothly again.

All too soon they were followed by that familiar, low mewl. “That was quick,” remarked Keith, watching the cyan light of Shirogane’s hoverbike rapidly gaining upon them. He said, half to himself and half to Alpha, “Think we can handle a second round?”

Before he could do anything else a dark shape descended. It was Keith’s turn to yelp and veer off course. Shirogane’s hoverbike landed silently in front of him, hardly driving up the barest of sands. Pebbles rained down from the clifftop, marking Shirogane’s path. Urgently Keith veered to the side to avoid the falling debris. A single grain of sand too big would annihilate the delicate engines and that would be the end.

Shirogane was swiftly putting distance between them now that Keith was flying crooked. There was no knowing how long this inane race would be, and Alpha's engines stood a chance of overheating, but Keith drove Alpha back into full speed and Alpha, thankfully, obliged. They were in the green. But they were also heading into more unkind territory, where half-formed pillars of solid rock stuck out from the sand at unpredictable inclines.

From the back Shirogane was still an imposing figure, his muscular form fitting sleekly against his hoverbike’s frame. No matter how he swerved or weaved Shirogane matched him, not giving him the chance to overtake.

They drove on and on until even the plateau leaned into an angle, creating a natural curved wall on one side, and the other fell away to nothing, a sheer drop to oblivion. This was Keith’s last chance to overtake Shirogane; the road back to the garrison was a featureless dried-out plain with nothing he could exploit. He waited, their hoverbikes chewing up the distance like it was nothing, quickly coming to the last few miles of the plateau.

Predictably, Shirogane kept close to the cliff walls. A fine soldier like him guided by team spirit would surely choose a route safest for his followers. Playing it safe always cost Keith his win, because he’d never fitted anywhere. He was the token loner of every group and he was forced to claw his way up for everything in his short, meaningless existence.

He’d never had a leader forge the way for him.

Finally, they came to the bend Keith had been waiting for: the last, viciously S-shaped curve that almost doubled in on itself before extending into the home stretch.

Shirogane, born leader and team unifier, obediently followed where the cliff led.

Keith, spurned and selfish maverick, took the jump.

Alpha surged into the air. He’d made this leap countless times before, in the dead of night, when nobody was watching. Now Shirogane was his audience. Keith floated, suspended, hung in midair by the force of his willpower alone, and it was then that he acutely regretted not being able to see Shirogane’s expression.

With a well practiced swerve of the yoke to counter Alpha’s careening momentum, mindful of Shirogane’s rapidly approaching hoverbike, Keith used the slant of the cliff walls to cushion his fall and retake the lead.

Home free.

The ride back to the garrison was silent. He didn’t notice when he slowed down, but he eventually found himself cruising along at a comfortable pace with Shirogane just beside him. The race had come to a decisive end after his foolhardy stunt and even without words it was clear that Shirogane had conceded defeat. It was almost peaceful, riding slowly without deadlines or schedules, with only some disturbed sand to ever mark their being here.

He felt Shirogane’s gaze on him every so often but he didn’t feel any need to turn to look.

They slowly eased back into the hangar, Keith guiding Alpha back into the bay marked _01._ He gave it a cursory look-over, making sure there were no mud stains or stray specks of sand lodged in a groove somewhere, before turning to face Shirogane. The ace pilot already had his hoverbike parked in bay _14_ and was holding his helmet loosely in one hand, patiently waiting for him to be done.

“They definitely have different controls,” reported Shirogane, answering Keith’s previous question. Perspiration matted his fringe against his forehead.

“Who would have guessed,” Keith drawled. He flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes and Shirogane’s gaze followed his movement. “So, now what?”

Shirogane perched a gloved hand on his hip, studying him. His gaze seemed to stare into Keith’s very core, reading secrets that Keith didn’t know he hid. It both calmed and unsettled him. Keith lowered his eyes first.

“You really are a stellar pilot.” When Shirogane spoke, his voice was kind, and Keith was surprised not to find any of the man’s usual firmness in there. Keith wished the observation could’ve been clinical, like before, so he could continue to hate this man. He hated that he couldn’t tell if it was amusement or pity or both. He hated Shirogane for making him stop hating in entirety.

But he still did hate sweeping with a vengeance. He explained uselessly, “I still hate sweeping with a vengeance.”

“I see what you mean.” Shirogane nodded, then beckoned him over. Keith hesitated, but fell into step a few paces behind. “It’s late. Taking out your anger on the hoverbikes works, but garrison life still continues tomorrow.”

Keith didn’t give a reply, not even as Shirogane scanned his garrison pass to give Keith safe access into the corridors without alerting the majors. He headed back to his room without saying goodbye, stripped and showered and crashed into bed. Shirogane knew about his habits and saw through him like a piece of glass. What was the man doing out there, then, alone in the unresponding sands in the dead of night?

What more could an ace pilot want out of a system that created reasons to reward him?

He thought again about Shirogane gliding along beside him, twin hoverbikes matching each other's rhythm and sound, and sleep came easily though Keith couldn’t work out why.

 

 

Next morning Keith awoke feeling like death. The day before had been a disaster and the stress was finally taking its toll. He dragged himself out of bed, noting with distaste that his squadron mates had left him to oversleep.

Of course everyone else would be in the brightly lit mess hall, ready and waiting. Forks and spoons paused midway, a familiar uncharacteristic silence falling over the recruits. Keith forced himself not to meet anyone’s eyes. He’d already had more trouble than anything here was worth.

A chair’s metal legs scraped against polished tile. The engineer from yesterday stood up, furious. Keith stopped in his tracks, taking a surprised step back when the engineer fisted his collar and hauled him close.

“You,” spat the engineer.

Keith was mildly satisfied not to see a watch buckled on his wrist.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“If you’d kept to your lane none of this would’ve happened,” the engineer growled. Keith dug his heels in and refused to be moved. “You don’t deserve to be here, Kogane! You’re only good for wrecking simulators. Nobody needs a pilot like you!”

Keith felt the anger bubble, run from somewhere deep inside his chest to coil in his palm. All around him, his classmates stared mutely, wanting blood but too cowardly to claim it. The engineer was still cursing, holding Keith fast by the collar of his orange uniform, and from this close Keith could see very clearly all the places he needed to hit to render him unconscious. Tiny pricks of pain smarted across his palms from fingernails digging into the skin, his dagger weighing heavily at his hip.

“That’s enough, recruits. Step away from each other.”

The engineer’s eyes widened, focusing over Keith’s shoulder and Keith took the chance to push the engineer away, out of arm’s reach. Then he turned.

Standing in the doorway was none other than the ace pilot Shirogane, gaze hard and unforgiving. Instinctively, Keith felt sour disgust coil in the pit of his gut. Of course Shirogane would try to eke out some more glory for himself here. First the majors, then the press conferences, and now the recruits. And next, Kerberos. It didn’t deserve someone like him.

Only when all attention had turned to Shirogane did the man walk forward, and Keith was the only one averting his eyes so he wouldn’t need to deal with that patronizing expression.

“My advice extends to all of you.” His voice was firm, cutting, and despite himself Keith felt a tiny shiver run up his spine. “You are now part of a legion, the fastest and fiercest fliers in this part of the world. Act like it.”

In the silence, Keith’s derisive snort was audible.

“I watched your flights yesterday,” Shirogane continued without missing a beat. “There were many errors that shouldn’t have been a problem. Some of the conflict stems from something deeper, and we all know that you know more about what those are than I do.

“Now, listen. The first rule they teach us at advanced levels is _respect._

“Respect your teammates. Respect the risks. Respect the aircraft, and the sky, and the stars. Respect each other’s skills and learn from those who best you. And most of all, respect yourself. Each of you deserves so much more. Stop selling yourselves short.”

The recruits around Keith fell back suddenly. Keith looked up, suddenly coming face to face with Shirogane himself. The man was so much more massive when he wanted to be imposing, the firm set of his jaw and his steely gaze turning him from young man into full-fledged commander.

Unable to hold that sure and unflinching gaze, Keith briefly wrestled with the idea that compared to a true leader like Shirogane, he had no chance making it on board the ship to Kerberos.

_You need to be a team player._

Keith waited for it, hating every second of suspense because he knew the inevitable would come anyway.

Instead, Shirogane said, more gently, “Patience yields focus.” and Keith was so shocked to hear it that his head snapped up. Shirogane's face was, as always, calm and perfectly schooled.

His piece finished, Shirogane turned and walked towards the food vendors, leaving Keith bewildered and frankly feeling kind of overwhelmed. His classmates were all surprised too; he could hear their astonished, dirty little whispers all around.

It passed quickly; soon the only thing he felt was blinding rage. Now that Shirogane had stepped in to mend the broken bridge, his platoon mates would never respect him enough to fix his own problems any more. Shirogane had ruined any sliver of chance he might possibly have of working with anyone in his flight team — hell, anyone in his class.

There was no way he’d be able to fly again.

“Hey, Keith Kogane, right?” Shirogane walked by again, holding a tray with two portions of food on it. The man angled his head to point and his dark fringe fell messily over his forehead. “Come on. You’re having breakfast with me.”

There was a shocked gasp from the class. Shirogane continued to focus his attention on Keith, remaining perfectly oblivious to the furor, and Keith struggled to find his tongue.

“What?”

“Breakfast,” explained Shirogane patiently, “In my office. Are you coming?”

Keith glanced over his shoulder at his openly resentful classmates, and hated how the choice Shirogane presented him was actually no choice at all.

“Yeah,” he said, breaking into a run to fall into step with the sergeant, and he felt every eye weigh heavily on him as they left.

 

 

Shirogane’s office was a spartan, cubic room, shelves squeezed into every inch of unused wall and countless books crammed into every available surface. Everything was ridiculously neat, the desk polished, the floor spotless, the windows drawn to let in the pale morning light. He sat gingerly in the chair opposite Shirogane’s, at the other side of the desk. Slightly sheepishly, he realised the whole setup reminded him of his past in the civilian world, of his younger days spent at the headmaster’s office.

Except now Shirogane was handing him a box of food and not out to get him.

Keith quashed his feelings of awkwardness and tore into breakfast as he always did: efficiently, wolfishly, and without emotion. Food was energy, and energy let him fight. He ate because he needed to.

Shirogane watched him, working through his over-fried bacon and shapeless mashed potato at a more respectable pace.

“So what is this about,” said Keith, when he could no longer bear to play this silent waiting game.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Shirogane scraped up the last of his baked beans.

Keith smirked. The man knew him. “Try me anyway.”

“I spoke to Major Anderson. You’re dropping out of class.”

Keith’s fork clattered on the ground. Shirogane’s expression shifted minutely.

“Are you serious?” Keith forced out weakly. His hands had gone cold. He forced himself not to even entertain the possibility. “I’m the best pilot of all the recruits. They can’t expel me.”

“Well, they can. They reserve the right to. But you’re not being expelled. From now on I’m going to be your mentor.”

Another whiplash of emotions hit him and Keith felt his mouth go dry. _I'm going to be your mentor,_ Shirogane said, and the thought of spending even more time around this haughtily perfect sergeant was revolting in its entirety. He focused on the more important fact, “So I’m not expelled?”

“You asked me to test you, so I did.” Shirogane licked his lips and packed away the boxes and Keith wanted to stand and deck the man in his smug face.

“The truth,” he demanded, without heat or venom in his voice even though he tried.

“The truth is that Major Anderson and all your classmates know that you can easily outperform everyone else. Thing is, some have given feedback that it demoralized them. So rather than let the situation continue to stew, I fought long and hard to take you under my own wing.”

Keith sagged against his chair. His heart was hammering away. God, this was not news he wanted to ever get used to receiving. Shirogane was looking at him differently too, with a new fondness that he didn’t want to get used to, either.

Unfortunately, it seemed like he had no choice in any of that. So he _was_ better than the others, held back for no reason other than… convenience? That it was better for ‘team spirit’? How much else had the garrison withheld from him just because his classmates weren’t good enough for him?

“Hey, but don’t think this gives you a free pass to demanding whatever you want,” Shirogane held up a finger, reading his mind so perfectly that Keith was slightly unnerved. “You’ll be walking the fast track, but you’re still a recruit in the garrison. You need to earn your place.”

Keith glanced at the gold stripes, metaphors for wings, framing the crease at the shoulder of Shirogane’s uniform.

Even more than his distaste of Shirogane, he ached to feel the tightness of that blazer around his shoulders and learn how it cupped his waist.

“When do I start?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, if you want.” Shirogane stood with the tray. The clock behind him read 0816.

He almost couldn’t believe any of what he was seeing. Any time now, he’d wake up in bed with expired soap poured over his sheets and jeering echoing down the hall. Keith stood and followed after Shirogane, slightly hesitant.

“Is that really… I mean, I’m still a private. I haven’t even finished basic military training.”

“You fly better than some of the others who’ve supported me,” said Shirogane, gaze fixed on some point at the far end of the corridor. “We’ll make a soldier out of you yet, Keith.”

Keith was unconvinced. “And what do you get out of this? It’s hard work, teaching a student from scratch.”

Shirogane turned his head slightly to fix Keith with a knowing look which was supposed to say more than Keith was capable of reading.

“A pilot.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Keith stumbled to a halt.

Shirogane, genuinely oblivious, continued walking down the corridor. “It’s team recruitment season, and I haven’t found someone else to fly with. And the ones I’ve flown with are all leaving for their ISS duties at the end of the week…”

Suddenly realising that Keith had fallen behind, he turned and tilted his head, and this time the innocent gesture stirred something different inside Keith. He couldn’t use any of his old indignation or frustration as a spark for his anger. He just… couldn’t. There was nothing that warranted it — no lies or secrets to hate, no veiled glances.

_Shirogane was true._

Faced with someone like Shirogane, Keith didn’t know where to put his feelings.

“Hey, Keith. Relax. It’s just a flight simulation. It’ll be fun.” Shirogane’s voice tore him from the mess of his thoughts and Keith forced himself back into movement.

“R-Right.”

 

 

Shirogane’s third teammate was an engineer/comms IC called Matt Holt, who wore a blinding grin and reminded Keith of a big, fluffy golden retriever wearing a tailored grey garrison uniform.

“Hey buddy!” Shirogane greeted Holt, and the soldier looked up from his reports to turn a caramel-glazed smile on them both.

“Shiro! Hey! Oh, no, _you_ wait just a moment.”

Holt turned grave for a moment, and Keith’s jaw almost dropped when he saw Shirogane’s form shrink into itself a little.

“Report.”

“Matt, I can expla —”

“No, no, no no no. We agreed on making sure you don't die before the age of thirty. _Report._ Sleeping hours and caffeine intake for yesterday. Now, Shiro.”

Shirogane, if it were even possible, wilted a little more. His voice was a guilty mumble. “Two REM cycles… four cups.”

Crossing the simulation room at a much faster speed than Keith would’ve thought possible, the boy was before Shirogane instantly. Keith watched, dumbfounded, as Holt waited for Shirogane to bow his head to receive the thwack of a rolled-up report across his hair.

“What happened to _four_ REM cycles and _three_ cups of caffeine? I don’t make promises with people for nothing.”

Shirogane glanced helplessly at Keith.

Following Shirogane's gaze, Holt turned to him. “Well, Keith?”

At the mention of his name, Keith straightened for judgement from the not-so-caramel-sweet Holt. He realised it was his cue and cleared his throat. “Yes. Uh. You see, Shirogane and I… we were… um…”

_Quick, another synonym for ‘being team players’._

“We were… bonding.”

_Yes. Nailed it._

He continued, with more certainty, “Yeah, we were bonding. We had many nice, long, heart-wrenching, touching… bonding moments.”

 _Bonding._  Keith swallowed down a snicker. Even if you squinted and were half blind you couldn’t hope to call it bonding. It was an illegal chase outside garrison compounds on pirated equipment with them nearly killing each other twice.

Holt didn’t look convinced. Which was alright, because Keith wasn’t convinced by his own retorts anyway.

“That’s the truth!” protested Shirogane, rubbing halfheartedly at his head.

“Which means _you_ didn’t get enough sleep either!” Holt jabbed a finger at Keith accusatorially and Keith was both too overwhelmed and too out-debated to object.

Shirogane stepped between them, hands raised. “Hey, now. Let’s not bully the new guy… I’ve already given him enough trouble.”

Keith was thankful for the intervention, but couldn’t resist folding his arms.

“So _I’m_ your excuse now?”

A stifling silence fell between them. Panic surged through Keith’s gut. Had he overstepped his boundaries, ruined whatever good rapport he had going on with the others? He was still a private, and these were the garrison’s top soldiers. Did he—

Holt turned to Shirogane with a low, disbelieving gasp and a barely concealed smile. Shirogane, on the other hand, was looking uncomfortable enough to squirm in his boots.

_What?_

_“Anyway,”_ Diplomatically, Shirogane bluntly put an end to this by holding Holt firmly by the shoulders, doing that stupid little gesture with his head to beckon Keith over to the simulator. His ears were red. “Keith, you know this simulator by now…”

Keith rolled his eyes, but graciously let Shirogane have this.

It was the same shell and the same insides, suspended over a drop in the floor to support movement in all directions. A walkway slowly extended from the landing, taking them to the door of the simulator.

Shirogane explained, “Matt mainly handles the engines, though sometimes he takes the comms when things aren’t so hairy. And ever since Tong Jin was poached by the International Space Station, Matt’s had his plate full to overflowing. We’re great as a team, but we’re definitely still a little understaffed.”

Holt nodded, giving a familiar unwarped panel a fond pat. “That's right. Shiro does everything I can't do. You see, typically, teams have people dedicated for specific roles. But when there are multi-talented people to spare,” he grinned lopsidedly, and at once Keith knew where Shirogane learned to smile like he did now, “Then we just do whatever’s needed at the moment.  But when things go wrong, they go _wrong,_ like, _really_ wrong. So we help cover each others’ backs. That’s just how it is, in small trio-based missions.”

Holt leaned easily on the panels, a casual movement that would surely have gotten a tongue-lashing from the majors if he was still a private.

“So what can you bring for us, Keith? You’re kinda famous in this neck of the woods.”

“Famous? For what?” Surprisingly, it was Shirogane who asked. “I hadn’t heard of him until Major Anderson brought him to me.”

“That’s because you’re always buried in those zen books and learning about how to build motorbikes when we have _hoverbikes_ in this day and age.” Holt gave Shirogane a dramatic roll of his eyes and the sergeant pursed his lips in response. “Well, Keith, to answer the question, you’re famous for being a garbage team player and yet having an ace pilot pull you out of your intended curriculum.”

Keith stiffened. Holt was goading him, trying to see where his limits were. Shirogane strode forward, alarm in his eyes, but Keith shook his head minutely to turn him down.

“I…” Keith searched for the right words, genuinely trying to put his emotions into something understandable. “I fly as best as I can, for myself. If I were a pilot I’d fly for the people on my ship if I needed to.”

What was the other thing? Was it something about discipline? Keith couldn’t remember, but continued blindly on, “I do break the rules. Sometimes. Because they’re not useful all the time. Sometimes the rules hurt people, too.”

The scar healing on his cheek smarted.

Holt held his gaze silently, and Keith fought the urge to fidget. Keith desperately wanted to prove to Holt that he could be a pilot of worth — not only because Holt seemed to be a person of principle and immense knowledge, but because Holt was clearly Shirogane’s good friend, clearly a _trusted_ friend, and he also wanted to do Shirogane proud.

“Alright,” said Holt finally, breaking into a grin. “If you’re good enough for Shiro, you’re good enough for me. Come on. Let’s see what you can do.”

Keith let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Holt plonked himself into the engineer’s seat with a pleased little hum as if he’d always belonged there. He _did_ look like he belonged there, turning this crappy simulator into his second home.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder and Keith tensed, turning swiftly to look. It was just Shirogane, giving him an embarrassed smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you, sorry.”

He wasn’t in the privates’ barracks any more, Keith had to remind himself, he wasn’t going to be dragged into a dim stairwell and taught a baseless lesson.

He managed a soft, painfully neutral “Mm” and looked down at the fingers still wrapped around his shoulder. Shirogane finally got the hint and pulled away. Briskly, Shirogane returned his hands to his side. The sergeant looked like he never really knew what to do with them.

“You’re going to be just fine if you flew like you flew last night.”

“You mean flying like how you flew and nearly crashed Sergeant Ferguson’s hoverbike?” snickered Holt from his seat.

Keith and Shirogane both froze.

“You… you saw that?” asked Shirogane, weakly.

“I see all.” Holt gestured dramatically, angling his face so the dim interior lights glinted off the polished surface of his glasses.

Keith vaguely wondered if he’d practiced getting the perfect angle by himself in his room. He also wondered how much Holt had seen… but some things were better left unasked.

“Anyway,” continued Shirogane cautiously, “Since it’s your first day, you get first pick.”

Nobody on the team would never let him live this moment down — apparently he’d brightened up like a child offered an eternal supply of candy.

“Really?”

“Really.” Shirogane smiled, Keith’s sudden enthusiasm infectious.

Keith let his gaze be drawn to the pilot’s yoke waiting quietly at the helm of the bridge. It’d be his first time piloting in… in far too long. He sank into the seat, shifting slightly to let the cushions adjust to his frame, reverently fitting his hands in the padded handles of the yoke. It was sensitive, well-oiled, responsive, and shifted even at his gentle touch.

“Looks like we’re settled,” said Shirogane from the comms seat. With a low hum, the interior lights dimmed.

Keith’s breath caught in his throat as the dashboard, all its clumsy buttons and its levers and switches all glowed and pulsed a myriad of colors. Screens were taking their time flickered to life, flaring black before forming the gorgeous froth-flecked blue and green Earth below him. Even the stars, only existing in the virtual reality that would only last a few moments, sent a little shiver down Keith’s skin.

This is what it meant to pilot a ship.

Shirogane’s voice echoed, calm and clear, in the cockpit. “Here we go. Simulator is now active, running test Tango Seven Echo Eight Four. Initiating warm-up sequence. Keith, you know this drill. The ship’s all yours.”

Keith glanced over his shoulder. Holt was already lost in a million screens and Shirogane’s attention was already turned on his own dashboard. Shirogane was using his headset as a makeshift hair band so the wild tuft of his hair stuck out behind him, inky feathers of a ruffled bird. As if sensing Keith’s gaze, the sergeant turned with a small, confident smile and a brief thumb’s up to encourage him.

“Test Tango Seven Echo Eight Four,” repeated Keith, slowly, unconfidently at first, but as the ship throttled into life with whirrs and rumbles of approval, something inside him finally settled into just the right spot and Keith found a tiny shy smile playing on his lips. “Ready for ignition.”

 

 

Without warning and preparation Keith found himself caught up in the rhythms of this dynamic, accepting team. He loved to fly for them, loved to fly alongside them. He still loved the pilot seat most, but took turns at every station in the cockpit and learned everything he could. He was ravenous; back in private company everything seemed stiff, sterilized. Contrived.

It was here, amidst the wingbeats of veterans, that Keith found himself truly tested.

They were in the midst of another airlift when an alarm blared through the ship. Winds were picking up and they still hadn’t found their target pickup point. The howling snow made it damn near impossible. Keith tried pulling up above the gales to give the comms a better read, but the plane fought back.

“Flight’s not responding properly. What’s going on?”

“Warning transmission. Red forces. I’m reading them four by five.” Shirogane frowned at his screen. “They’re close, but they’re not showing up on radar. Matt, is our low freq radar blasted or is it just me?”

“It’s out. Soft reboots don’t work.” Holt let out a frustrated exhale. Keith knew he’d be frantically trying every option systematically, leaving nothing to chance.

The cockpit shuddered and the lights turned red.

“Left engine’s taking heavy fire,” Holt shouted, just as Shirogane called, “Unfriendly fire, ten o’clock. Two of them.”

“I’ll shake them.” Keith flipped the safety levers. “Permission to fly, Shirogane?”

“Permission granted. Get us out of here safely.”

Keith shoved the yoke forward as far as he could go, sending the ship into a fierce nosedive, back into the blizzard. The searing bolts of lasers melted the snow above them and bounced off rock, leaving charred marks. “What’s our left wing like?”

“Forty five percent lift. Not looking good.”

Favoring the undamaged right wing, Keith sent the plane skimming across the rolling snowy dunes. Keeping low dropped them out of radar’s detection range, giving them a chance at losing their pursuers. Using the weakened left engine he forced the plane into a sharp left spin. The vicious turn had the cockpit trembling from the exertion; Holt let out a yelp of surprise but Keith persisted, easing the plane through the harsh turn before easing it back into stability again. They were now cutting through a sheer valley, plane angled at an awkward angle to avoid getting nicked by out-jutting rocks.

“I’m reading a distress signal,” said Shirogane suddenly. “That’s our pickup.”

Keith frowned. There was only so much valley left, and with the left engine failing quickly there was not much choice left for them. “Shirogane. In or out.”

“They’re not too far. But we need to decide if we can make it first.”

Shirogane’s statement was directed at them, his teammates. Keith stifled a swell of undue pride.

From his post and with certainty Holt said, “Will try my best.”

Keith glanced at the red lights on his dashboard, a second passing as he did a mental stock check. It would be tight, but not impossible. He wasn’t going to let anyone down. He said, feeling the gravity of consent weigh heavily on him, “Ditto.”

“Alright.” A brief pause. “In it is.”

“Roger. Give me coordinates.” Keith swallowed down his nervousness. The numbers flashed on his HUD: the refugees were located under an overhang a few hundred miles away. It didn’t seem very far, but it didn’t seem very near either. The plane protested when Keith forced it on. Even trying to distribute the pressure didn’t let anything up, but it was as worth a shot as any.

Shirogane called out, “Keep heading north. We need to get out of this valley, stat. Holt, give us invisibility.”

“Thought you’d never ask. On your mark.”

“Wait. Not yet.” Keith grinned, knuckles whitening around the yoke. “We have one faulty engine. They won’t expect us to take the Westward plateau.”

“Keith, are you—” It was an old retort, but Shirogane definitely knew the answer to this every time. Keith was oddly satisfied to hear Shirogane cut himself off. “Alright. Just be careful. Holt, cover us once we resurface.”

“Sorry about the G’s,” was the only concession Keith gave before driving the plane up the sloping sides of the valley. In the uneven, enclosed space of the valley, aircraft so small could easily be mistaken for radar noise. They made it to the top without event and it was just left to Holt to set the cloaking systems in place.

On the main HUD, the two enemy ships remained where they were and soon flickered off screen.

“Nice job, Keith.”

“Also, don’t apologise about the nosedives.” Holt rubbed his nose. “I could take beauty naps with you flying this baby. Tong Jin was much rougher than you. Gave me migraines every time. ”

“Bet she can’t drive a hoverbike,” quipped back Keith, and Holt made the most flabbergasted sound.

“How the _heck_ did you know?”

Shirogane cut in. “Clam it, guys. We’re reaching our pickup location soon.”

Keith refocused on the mountains hurtling by, but the winds were still vicious and he couldn’t make out a thing beyond the flurry of ice and snow.

“Piss poor visibility.”

“Language,” warned Shirogane jokingly, but the man’s expression was grave. “I’m not reading anything any more. Keith, pull up to give us some air.”

“Uh, guys—” Holt was in the middle of his sentence when the snow cleared, abruptly, and a slab of dark rock rose out of nowhere. Keith jumped, the yoke trembling violently in his hands, and static burst across the screen.

Briefly, distorted images of Kerberos formed in the confused pixels, followed by a dark silhouette, an ace pilot on a hoverbike framed by fragments of broken glass scattered across the sky —

_SIMULATION FAILED_

“... Keith.  _Keith,”_ that familiar, firm grip settled on his shoulder, pulling him back into the real world. Keith forced his eyes open. The dashboard in front of him was dark, dead.

Keith’s hands were shivering.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He turned slightly towards Shirogane, lacking the strength to give the man any other response.

“Come on. It’s just a simulation. Let’s get out of here.”

Keith let Shirogane tug him out, for once thankful for the avuncular hand on his shoulder, almost glad to feel Shirogane’s reassuring presence a little too close. Holt was already outside, plugging his tablet into the main CPU to download the footage and troubleshoot.

Holt took one look at the both of them and sighed.

“I vote we call it a night. I’ll do the analysis and come up with a report tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, that does sound like a good plan.” Shirogane said gratefully. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Excuse me! Unlike _some_ people I always make sure I get my four REM cycles,” retorted Holt, waving them away without venom. “You infuriate me. Get out of here.”

The walk to their room was quiet. It was a humble two-person dorm with a desk, bed, and closet each. It was closer to the simulation rooms in this wing and far away from Keith’s old classmates, which he absolutely adored.

Keith tapped his key pass and the door hissed open for them.

In companionable silence, they took turns washing up. Shirogane must’ve been bone-dead tired, because by the time Keith was done and towelling off his hair, the man was sitting at his desk, and his head was nodding.

For the few weeks he’d learned, trained, and lived alongside Shirogane, he hadn’t ever seen Shirogane giving in to his exhaustion so fully. Shirogane had this ridiculous notion that he had to be strong and infallible and as a result he drove himself beyond all reasonable limit.

The date for the Kerberos recruitment drive was inching steadily closer. Keith, while he had improved by leaps and bounds since he’d left the company of the privates, still had a lot to prove. On the other hand Shirogane was outperforming everyone, setting himself a head above all the rest. The only one he could not outperform was himself.

Keith wandered over to Shirogane’s desk, careful not to nudge the dozing man. He’d been pouring over reports from the Triton launch and moon landing, diligently annotating in the margins and taking notes in a separate notebook. His blocky handwriting had started off nice and even, then deteriorated to a jumble of spaghetti as his hand moved of its own accord, translating dream to ink.

Overcome with a sudden fondness for this overworked, overachieving senior, Keith trotted back to the bathroom. There were only a few bottles of soap in here. Keith mooched off Shirogane’s conditioner, but only because Shirogane insisted. Keith just had to complain about tangled hair that _one_ time. But that was besides the point: why did Shirogane need to condition his hair if 60% of the surface area of his head was close shaven?

(Those floppy locks of hair really did look quite soft, though — Keith tried to imagine how it was like, running his fingers through the strands.)

He rested a finger on the bottle and carefully tipped it over so it clattered on the floor. “Oops,” he called out. “My bad.”

Shirogane responded a few seconds later, voice syrupy. “Did you drop something?”

“The conditioner.” He put it back and stepped back out, making a show of drying his already-dried hair.

 _“My_ conditioner?”

“The conditioner.” Keith walked over to lean on Shirogane’s chair. Almost embarrassed, Shirogane moved to cover his notes with one arm. “What’re you doing?”

“Reading. Just a report from a previous interstellar landing.”

“Haven’t you already memorised those reports?” Keith pulled away to hang his towel on its rack, then sat on the edge of Shirogane’s bed. It was a bunk bed, and he slept on top; he didn’t want to head upstairs just yet.

Shirogane put down his pen, discovered the awful incoherent scrawls on his notes, and casually picked up his pen to give himself an excuse to cover it. “I wish I could tell you that. I’ve been paying attention to the technical details, the numbers and the SOPs. But I’ve missed out other things besides.”

Keith waited, but Shirogane retreated into himself, unwilling to divulge some deeper truth about the space exploration missions he so loved.

“What’s wrong?” He tried to be casual about it, reaching for one of the hair ties looped across his reading lamp as he talked to make him appear _extra_ casual.  

“You shouldn’t tie your hair up while it’s wet.” Shirogane flashed him a smile, but this time he didn’t even have the strength to make it tweak the corners of his eyes.

Keith shrugged and did his hair anyway, steering the conversation back to its intended course. “Maybe talking about it will help.”

“Maybe…” Shirogane tore his gaze away, fiddled with his pen, evasive.

Keith shifted over on the bed, thigh brushing up against the pillow so he could lean on the desk.

“Shiro. _Talk_ to me.”

Keith didn’t know what he did, but it was working because Shirogane finally set down his pen and leaned back against the chair, letting out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know… I think I’ll get better with practice. But our latest simulation just had me thinking. We did all we could, but we still failed to meet our target. So maybe there’s something to be learned from these past missions. Some key point that helped their mission succeed. And we can emulate them.” He gave a wry chuckle. “And maybe next time we won’t fail our earthbound simulations.”

Keith stared blankly.

“This is about the crash?”

Shirogane looked sheepish. “… Tangentially.”

“That crash was my fault, because I was the pilot. End of story.” Keith ran his hand through his hair. “I should’ve pulled up sooner. Flying so close to the mountains was suicide.”

Shirogane retorted, “If you hadn’t taken us out of the valley, we’d have been ambushed. And flying at low altitudes was the only option, because our radars weren’t working. So yes, it’s your fault — it’s your fault we made it that far.”

“I crashed the flight,” explained Keith flatly.

They held each other’s gaze for a while, each resolute in his own surety. He couldn’t understand why Shirogane refused to let go. This was, for once, was something Keith had full control over. It wasn’t his first sim flight as a full fledged pilot, but it was the first time a sim had failed because of him. After all he’d called the shots their captain didn’t, made the risk assessments on his own volition, and given it all he had. He wanted to own his mistakes as much as he wanted to own the chance of success.

Finally Shirogane seemed to come to terms with something, and then looked away, tapping his pen on the report decisively. “Regardless, I think we can still learn something from the Triton landing.”

That was Shirogane code for _Agree to disagree, Keith._

Keith nodded, quietly agreeing to it too. He scaled the ladder and Shirogane watched him with interest as he rooted around under his pillow and slid back down.

“Here,” he said, holding out his phone and earpieces. “I have a mix in there that keeps me awake when I need to cram for a test. Maybe it’d help.”

Shirogane turned the sleek red and black phone carefully in his hands. It looked so small and fragile in his palm.

“Thanks,” he said, visibly surprised.

Keith nodded, feeling a strange warmth settle in his chest.

“Sure.”

He sat at his own desk to begin his readings for the seminar the next day. Major Anderson was taking this class, and he wanted to prove that he could be as good as the seniors were (who was he even kidding? He absolutely hated words).

As he read, he stole glances Shirogane’s way, watching him fiddle with the earpieces and start bobbing his head to the music. Really, that was the thing about Shirogane. He was stern and serious — or more like he tried very hard to be. He stopped himself from having fun, though he was just as playful as any other private.

The hours marched on. Every so often Shirogane would hum low in his throat, marking out the choruses of his favorite songs. As it turned out, Shirogane liked anything with a clear melody running over bold accompaniments. He liked simple chord progression, too.

Keith cached every song into a mental playlist. He’d send Shirogane the tracks another day.

Shirogane kept bobbing and writing, even as the night crept into early hours of the morning. Keith resigned himself to dirty looks from the major in class later, slamming his book shut with a groan. He really did hate words. Thankfully, flying didn’t require much of it.

He turned the lights off at his side of the room and scaled the ladder to his bed. And as he did, every night, he gave the room a look over, taking in the easy coexistence of their lives. Their combs and tubes of hair wax lay in a messy tumble on the counter, Shirogane’s half of the room filled with books (surprise, surprise) and memorabilia of past space exploration missions, Keith’s own half littered sparingly with models of war machines from fantasy series _Gundam!_ and _Zoids,_ mixed in with to-scale replicas of outmoded planes.

Not to mention the star of the show, Shirogane Takashi — rocking out to some song only he could hear. And sensing Keith’s gaze, Shirogane raised his right hand and mouthed over the music, _Rest well, buddy._

 

 

The time was 0617. Keith was staring at his phone. He had been doing this since 0610.

Again he looked at Shirogane, fast asleep in his bed, his form shifting with every soft breath. Only the tuft of his fringe was visible over the sheets.

Keith looked down again at his phone.

 _I have been staring at this idiot for seven minutes,_ he thought.

In one of his rare moments of relaxation, Shirogane was resting his chin on his desk. Shirogane’s blue pen was clasped loosely in his grip, Keith’s earbuds still in his ears. Across his forehead, his fringe was a tangled wreck, as was the norm when he was focusing on his work. Beside him was Keith’s red _Liger Zero Phoenix_ model, and because it wasn’t in its usual position with wings flared to show off all its fine circuitry Keith knew Shirogane had been tampering with it. That was another old habit of Shirogane’s. He touched everything he could. He was as tactile as he was observant.

Keith had to put his hand over his cheeks.

His favorite moments of Shirogane were always framed by the stars. Behind Shirogane there was a garrison poster pinned to the off-white walls, a generous scattering of opalescent dust across the rich midnight blues and iridescent greens of artist-imagined space. _WE CREATE OUR FUTURE,_ read the poster, Shirogane’s favorite piece of propaganda because it had two astronauts facing the limitless unknown, hands gently clasped together.

It was both typical and surprising of Shirogane, Keith supposed, to twine ideals of love with the human desire for exploration.

But beyond that, he just didn’t know how _brightly_ Shirogane was capable of smiling. Every time he thought he’d finally seen the best one, call it quits, decide that _alright this is the peak of my existence there cannot possibly be anything better_ Shirogane would prove him wrong, oh so very wrong. Not that he disliked it, though; it wasn’t such a bad thing to get used to, just that it was happening a lot, lately. A _lot._

Shirogane always smiled a little more with the right side of his face, as though so caught up with his joy that it became impossible to keep himself symmetrical. It was one of those content, pure smiles only tiny children were capable of, the kind that made you mad with how easily it could render you powerless.

The kind that Keith was glad he ever had the chance to see; and even more thankful Shirogane had voluntarily immortalized it as Keith’s wallpaper.

“Damn it, Shiro.”

The time was 0619, and Keith now had stared at his phone for nine minutes.

He set his phone down on top of the stack of Triton launch reports, then walked over to prod Shirogane roughly in the shoulder. The lump of sheets and sleepy Shirogane groaned.

“Wake up. You’re supposed to spar me.”

Shirogane gave a few grumpy, broken syllables in reply, which Keith was aptly poised to translate as _Five more minutes._

“No more. You’ve slept in for nineteen minutes. Up.”

The sheets retreated and Shirogane obliged by opening an eye, gaze unfocused. “Please? I’m so sleepy.”

Keith wished he could save this sight of Shiro forever. Nobody would believe what he saw. Probably not even with evidence. He searched for some proper motivation.

“I’ll tell Matt.”

Shirogane closed his eye again. “You won’t.”

“Shiro.”

“Goodnight.”

Keith folded his arms. “Alright, you give me no choice. I’m going to forward your selfie to everyone on your contacts.”

“What selfie—” Shirogane bolted upright, looking all manners of betrayed. Keith chewed on his tongue to stop smiling. “You _wouldn’t.”_

“The world deserves to see how _cute_ you look,” Keith said, a smirk curling his words. But Shirogane was right: Keith was immense jealousy packed into a small body and there was no way in hell he would let such a picture ever grace anyone else’s eyes. He briefly entertained the idea of storing the picture in an encrypted hard drive and sealing that hard drive into a cold vault a mile below the ground. But then _he_ wouldn’t be able to look at it.

Shirogane stood, sulking. “I trusted you.”

“That was your first mistake.” Keith teased. He snatched up his phone just as Shirogane ambled casually over to the desk. For a sergeant, Shiro was way too easy to read.

Sulking harder, Shirogane finally relented and headed for the showers. “My first mistake was letting the major talk me into counselling a disobedient recruit.”

“You couldn’t turn down a request like that even to save your life.”

In reply, Shirogane gave Keith a familiar roll of his eyes, but he was smiling. Keith waited until the washroom door had locked and the water began to run before rooting around under Shirogane’s pillow and extracting the black phone underneath.

His face warmed as he loaded up the camera, but managed a weak little smile for it anyway. He had the most ridiculous bedhead since he hadn’t taken Shirogane’s advice the night before, but oh well.

“Nice bedhead,” remarked Shiro once he stepped out of the shower, earning himself an elbow in the gut and a deathly glare.

“Leave my hair alone.”

They were at the practice room minutes later. Keith slipped out of his favorite red jacket and Shirogane shrugged off his blazer. In his vest, Shiro almost looked like a completely different person: unfettered strength practically rearing to go.

Keith drew his dagger. It was a short, sturdy blade, with edges that never seemed to dull and a bite that could draw blood regardless of how how it was swung. The metal was ridiculously smooth, so polished that even the light couldn’t help but ripple down its sleek surface. It was Keith’s favorite weapon to date, even if it was shorter than most close-range blades.

Shirogane’s weapon of choice was a combat knife, garrison-issued, black stainless steel blade that tapered suddenly like a curved fang. Keith soon realised why it was Shiro’s favorite: it had a longer handle that fit Shiro’s wide grip, and since the blade transitioned almost seamlessly to its handle it provided ample balance for tight situations.

Of course, both of their blades were blunted with a polymer coating, so they left white marks on flesh and clothes but didn’t tear skin.

“Ready when you are,” said Shirogane, testing the weight on his feet.

Keith moved first. He sprinted forward, poised to read Shiro’s movements. He feinted moving in from the right, and when Shiro’s other hand came up to block his slash it was but child’s play to reverse his momentum, sidestep the push and go for Shiro’s neck from underneath.

As always the sergeant had a nifty little trick that involved reversing his knife’s grip in midair, and that made Shirogane truly unpredictable. Shiro’s blade countered his almost instantly, the impact running all the way up to Keith’s shoulder.

They sprung apart, Keith with a white line where his old wound had been.

“I keep telling you to be patient,” remarked Shiro. Keith was pleased to see him breathing hard, his dark gaze backlit by the heat of challenge.

“Patience yields focus, I know. But that’s just not my style.”

Shirogane tapped on his own cheek, indicating the lack of a mark.

Keith scowled, hefted his weapon. “Best two out of three?”

Shirogane nodded. His thumb worried the guard of his dagger. “Best two out of three.”

This time it was Shiro who surged forward first, an imposing figure with vengeance in his eyes, and as Keith moved to counter the lightning-quick barrage of slashes he vaguely realised he had never before felt this alive.

 

 

“I have a gift for you.”

He was in the midst of Wednesday’s too-thick mac’n’cheese dinner when Shirogane suddenly appeared out of nowhere, a full half an hour late, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands behind his back.

Shiro never clasped his hands together, or hid them behind his back. Not unless he had something to hide.

From his seat he glared up at Shiro suspiciously.

“What.”

“Yes.” Shiro’s neutral expression grew strained, a smile trying to escape.

“Okay.”

Keith feigned nonchalance and turned back to his food. The cream was already starting to congeal. From the corner of his eye he saw Shiro blink in indignation, his usually stern frown shifting into something like a pout. Inwardly, he was trying to recall anything that had happened out of the ordinary to guess what Shirogane had in store for him.

“You should ask what it is.”

“I’m eating.” Keith pushed the macaroni around on his plate, clearly not eating. “It’s dinnertime. And look, it’s mac’n’cheese day, which you love for whatever inexplicable reason.”

Shiro’s gaze flickered over to the vendors, where the treasure trove of golden, melty, savoury mac waited.

“No. No dinner. Not yet,” said Shiro abruptly, coming back to himself with an almost childish resolution. When he said “Get up” there was exasperation tinging his Sergeant Voice and Keith didn’t have the heart to toy with him any more.

“Fine, _sir,”_ Keith pulled the honorific in a flat drawl.

He got up to return his tray, but not before he scooped up some of his untouched macaroni and offered the spoon. Shirogane, looking conflicted and tempted and embarrassed all at once, hesitated a few seconds before leaning down to snap it up.

“I need to give you your gift,” he mumbled around his mouthful of food, following Keith like an insistent puppy all the way to the tray return station.

“Yes, alright. I got it. Gift time.” He threw Shirogane a limp salute that earned him a grimace.

“One of these days I ought to make you salute me until I’m satisfied.”

Keith bumped against him, hard, with his shoulder. “Gift time, or I’m going to bed early.”

“It's nineteen hundred hours.”

“Don’t test me.”

As usual they left the mess hall with all eyes on them, and Keith let himself a smirk when Shirogane reached over to give him a squeeze on the shoulder.

Whatever his gift was, it certainly hadn’t been behind Shirogane’s back. Keith let Shirogane lead him to the service lifts, passing whitewashed corridor after corridor, hitting the button to the hangar with a little too much force in his excitement.

In Shiro’s trouser pocket, something clinked.

The hangar was quiet, as it was this time of night. By now Keith’s visits to the hangars were something the garrison could tolerate. If Shiro accompanied him. Which Shiro was doing right now. As they passed the mains the sergeant flipped the main lever and pale fluorescent lights flickered on one by one, illuminating the rows of jeeps, hovercrafts, other all-terrain vehicles Keith had never sat in. The scent of burning tires and dried-out tarmac always comforted him.

Shirogane trotted over to the rows of hoverbikes, gesturing at the black Alpha waiting in Bay 01.

“Well. Here it is.”

Keith must’ve looked confused, because Shirogane was gesturing harder.

“It?” asked Keith unhelpfully.

“The gift,” supplied Shirogane.

Keith peered at the hoverbike. It remained unmistakably and positively unchanged from when Keith last took it for a spin.

When Keith only stared, waiting for an explanation, words suddenly seemed to fail the sergeant. As if abruptly realising the sheer ridiculousness of this whole thing Shiro combed fingers through his fringe and then moved to scratch at his neck.

“Oh!” Shiro dug around in his pocket, almost in a panic. Keith was thankful Shirogane didn’t notice him jump at the loud exclamation. “I forgot to give you the key!”

“I have the key,” said Keith slowly.

“But not the original!”

He held it up. The authentic key had a band of garrison black and orange rubber around the hexagonal grip, and an embossed insignia that caught the light.

“I… I don’t understand.”

Shirogane tossed Keith the key, breaking into the widest grin Keith had ever seen. Keith fumbled as he tried to catch it.

“I adopted Sergeant Ferguson’s bike. Garrison lets us trade equipment, but only if it remains orphaned on paper. Ferguson was more than happy to switch to a more idiot-friendly hoverbike and gave me his old one without much persuasion. Bike for bike. ” He jerked his head towards some vague part of the hangar, but Keith was uninterested and didn’t look. “You, on the other hand, are borrowing my Alpha permanently.”

Keith wanted to give Shiro something too: a tight punch to the head, because was this guy _nuts?_ What on earth — How much trouble did he go through for this?

“Doesn’t the garrison have, I don’t know, some strict regulation on who can own what machine?”

Shirogane shrugged, visibly unbothered with the finer details. “Well, people have been hankering to get their hands on a hoverbike lately, so there’s been lots of bartering under the table. I was just lucky. Happened to have been assigned an earlier model couple years ago.”

Keith wrinkled his nose in distaste at the implications of it, and Shiro for once didn’t berate him.

Instead, the man ambled over and gave Keith a hearty slap to the shoulder, his unique and slightly alarming way of expressing affection. “So! Alpha’s mine now.Which means now you can stop worrying about getting into trouble for taking other people’s stuff.”

“It’s _your_ bike,” retorted Keith weakly, but he was already enjoying the fit of the key in his palm.

“You’re welcome.” Shiro’s grin widened. “But hey, listen. That’s not even the best part.”

Keith walked over and leaned on Alpha’s cool flanks, only half faking needing the support. “Now I’m ready. Hit me.”

Shirogane stepped easily into Keith’s personal space as if he had every right to be there. The faint smell of cologne and Keith’s shampoo hung around him. Then he held up his tablet, flicking through his notifications until he found the one he was looking for.

“So, there are rumours that they’re using a new spaceship model for the Kerberos launch. Plus, they’re using a brand new system UI so delicate that they’re going to streamline applicants using a test. Turns out, it’s your favorite: a hoverbike sprint test. ”

Keith’s mouth went dry when Shiro angled the screen for him to read it.

“And now you have your own bike to compete. So, Keith? What are you going to do with your bike?”

“Well,” said Keith, unable to stop a shitty grin spreading, “First, I am going to paint it red.”

 

 

Before long the day of the race was upon them. No, it wasn’t formally called a race, but a mass simultaneous all-terrain test was just a glorified name for the same thing. Keith still thought the idea ridiculous, but the garrison did what the garrison wanted. Apparently space launches weren’t highly-controlled, highly-regulated systems and depended more on the participants of the flight than year-long planning from expert physicists and astronomers.

Classic garrison nonsense.

Keith edged around the last corner, hanging back on the fringes of the crowd. From his perch at the stairwell he could take in the entire room. The auditorium was a hive of activity, the racers in sturdy black full-bodied suits to minimize air resistance while still protecting the wearer, distinct from all the other grey or orange uniforms. Each one of the racers were the center of their own universes, surrounded by excited supporters and classmates, generous wide smiles with false appreciation and senseless chatter that would make Keith’s insides shrivel if he came any closer.

He thought he saw some money changing hands, bets being taken, but he couldn’t be sure.

Shiro wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Keith didn’t expect to see him here. He just wanted to see what all the others were up to, get a feel for the excitement and the tension running high in the room. He tried to imagine what it was like, to love the attention, to love the air heavy with rivalry and competition. At the far end of the room, a team of competitors had formed a ring and had their voices raised in a team cheer for morale.

It was almost disrespectful, turning the selection for a sacred Kerberos launch into such asinine fanfare.

Then the whispers started. Two of his old squadron mates were looking up at him, the underwhelming pilot and the hot-tempered engineer, and Keith felt his brows tighten in distaste when they were decked in the same black getup that he wore.

Before anyone else could notice him, he turned to head up the stairs from where he came, glad to leave it behind.

Gradually, the babble softened and disappeared. Keith found himself breathing a little easier as he made for the other wing of the garrison. Scaling the stairs two at a time he came to a fire escape and by twisting and rattling the old door handle a little he had it unlocked. He climbed a ladder to the roof, away from bleached corridors and soulless white light and into the parched desert air.

Out on the rooftops he could see for miles. He liked being able to see so far, a reprieve from the tight, hemmed-in compounds of the garrison. The air was the smell of overheated rock cooling after the punishing afternoon heat. The sun was setting quickly, the packed earth slowly shifting from dirty brown to something like amethyst dust. It was something about the sunset, how the change in the angle of the light always favored the translucent grains of quartz and made the sands glitter like faux gold. Soon the light would be gone, colors draining away to leave only pinpricks of white against inky darkness.

A familiar silhouette of black blotted out the otherwise flawless landscape. Shiro’s fringe shifted slightly in the breeze. He was leaning against the railings, looking out towards the horizon, oblivious to Keith’s arrival.

Where he stood, the man looked… almost lonely.

It was a tender moment, though Keith would never be able to tell why. He knew that once he stepped onto the metal roof tiles his footsteps would give him away and the moment would be gone; Shiro would turn to him with a confident smile that hardly meant a thing. Keith lowered his eyes almost guiltily, as though he were intruding on one of Shiro’s intensely private moments, one that was never meant to be seen by anyone else.

_Shiro, I have something to tell you. No matter what happens in the race later, if you qualify for top five and I don’t…_

His rehearsed speech sounded frail, inadequate, useless, almost. Would Shiro even have the time to worry about what Keith felt?

Keith hated that he wasn’t sure.

“Hey, thought I’d find you here.” He stepped forward, taking a heavy step to make sure Shiro would hear.

Shiro turned, surprised, slightly shamefaced at being caught off guard, a second passing before his usual smile settled back across his face. His right arm still rested calmly across the railing.

“Hey, buddy. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Sorry to intrude.” Keith wandered over and leaned on the metal barrier, self-conscious and jittery for no good reason.

“No, you weren’t intruding at all.”

Shiro turned back to stare at the setting sun, resting his other arm on Keith’s shoulder. They’d gone through this so many times, but Keith was the perfect height and Shiro never seemed to remember (pretended that he kept forgetting?), so Keith eventually resigned himself to the role of armrest for the garrison’s ace pilot and actually felt quite satisfied about it.

Keith cleared his throat. “Hey, um, Shiro?”

“Is this about the race?” Shiro asked, without turning to look at him.

Keith hesitated. “Well, yes, but also no.”

“Let me go first.” Shiro cast him a sidelong glance. “We’re going to be the top two pilots in the garrison. We’re both going to make it on the ship to Kerberos, and we’re going to fly there as a team: you, me, and Matt. We’re going to reach Kerberos and collect so many space rocks, and then we’re going to come back safe, and then I’m going to make sure you get promoted whether the majors like it or not.”

Keith stared.

Shiro stared back, frowning slightly from the gravity of the situation. He only ever frowned when he really meant every word he said, but it sounded so ridiculous because of how earnest it was, as though putting the Maximum Amount of willpower into his wishes would turn them into reality. It was such an innocent spiel that Keith was completely taken aback.

But at the same time, this was _so Shiro_ that Keith burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. It was definitely not the reaction Shiro must’ve been waiting for, because he jumped and tousled his fringe sheepishly.

“K-Keith…”

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “That was… honestly, quite motivating. But also really cute.”

Shiro scowled, face growing red. “That wasn’t meant to be cute.”

Keith scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his glove, still chuckling.

Never one to miss Keith’s subtlety, Shiro fastened hands around his shoulders, alarmed. “Hey, Keith, come on, what’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

 _We,_ Shiro had told him. _We._ It hit him suddenly, that he was part of a team, and Shiro had absolutely no plans to leave him behind on earth, not while Kerberos waited some distant time and space away.

No, he was part of _Shiro’s_ team now, hand picked and fought for, trained and nurtured by a leader he didn’t deserve.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, and Shiro let out a nonplussed grunt to express his disbelief. “Really, it’s nothing. I… I just can’t wait to get to Kerberos. I’ve always wanted to go to Kerberos, ever since I joined the garrison. Maybe even before that. I can’t remember.”

Shiro turned the new information over in his mind. “Could you tell me why?”

Keith nodded, leaning slightly against Shiro’s comforting weight beside him. “Because Pluto was the outcast of the solar system. It’s not even a planet any more. And Kerberos may never have been discovered if not for someone deciding to leave the camera on for a few more seconds than usual.”

A flock of birds darted past, whistling into the sunset.

“I know there’s still Styx, which we might never put people on, because it’s just too small. Also discovered the same way.”

Keith thought about the lopsided, monochrome smear that astronomers celebrated for years: _Kerberos, the greek guardian canine of Pluto’s underworld,_ and decided that Styx just wasn’t the same.

“People have already been on Hydra. But not Kerberos. Kerberos is the last chance for me to touch the outermost ring of the solar system, somewhere nobody has gone before.” His fingers tightened into a fist. “I _want_ to be there.”

He nearly lost his balance when Shiro carded his fingers in his hair, ruffling it messily. The motion snapped him out of his heavy emotions.

“Hey!”

“Oh, Keith. You’re not alone any more. You know that.” Shiro let go after one last rub, and Keith sprang away, mortified, instinctively wondering if he had time to go back down to redo his hair. “You’re more than how far you travel, or how fast you fly.”

Keith swallowed the knot in his throat, looking away, suddenly five years younger, hating every little bit of himself.

“Keith. Listen to me.”

Shiro reached over and held Keith’s face tightly between his palms. Keith’s entire body ceased functioning. He wasn’t sure what kind of expression he was making. Whether it was Shiro’s palms that were warm. Or if it was his face overheating. Or if—

_Shiro, what the fuck—_

“I have always believed in you. Even before I saw you fly that night, I knew you had it in you. I’ve always known you had it.”

“What’s the it?” Keith forced out, his voice strangled and unsure.

“I don’t know what it is. But I certainly know it when I see it.” Shiro let go, expressing how hilarious the notion was by clapping his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “You gotta take things like that at face value, buddy.”

_Damn it, Shiro._

“Thanks? … I guess.”

Shiro set his hands on his hips, suddenly looking much better for the wear, as if a load had disappeared off his chest. When Keith glowered at him, Shiro only glowed more.

“Alright. We should head back down. The test’s starting soon.”

_If either of us makes it to the top five, and the other doesn’t—_

“Eat my dust, Shirogane Takashi,” Keith declared, turning on his heel to head downstairs. The dying sun cast their shadows across the length of the building.

Behind him, Shiro laughed. It was the first time Keith had ever heard him. The laugh was deep and full-bodied, and as Keith listened it tugged a smile from him too. He hurriedly glanced over his shoulder to catch the tail end of the sound, to catch a glimpse of how Shiro looked as he did. He laughed like he smiled: fervent, impassioned,

Sincere.

Even though his face was cast in shadow, Shiro’s eyes glittered with a light all of their own.

“If it is your dust I’m eating, Keith Kogane, I would be honored.”

 

 

The landing strip of the garrison was a new sight to behold. Gaudy orange cones marked the start and finish lines, plastic tape holding excited spectators back from the main path. Floodlights were installed, chasing away the night. No longer the dreary site of mindless footwork and empty drills, it was the last site of normalcy, with chaos and adrenaline waiting beyond.

The ‘test’ path ran northwards in the same route he and Shiro had taken months ago, deflecting to circle around the stretch of unfriendly rock-studded terrain before veering east abruptly to skirt along the north-south line of the plateau that hemmed them in. Keith imagined Shiro pulling that same reckless maneuver, launching himself off the five-storey high cliff edge to overtake those in front of him. That was a bad idea, but certainly not the worst.

Unfortunately for Keith, but fortunately for everyone else, the competition path didn’t lead them to the cruelly winding road far north. Instead, it ran straight west until it hit the other border of the dust bowl, then circled back around southwards to complete the circuit.

It was the only sensible idea to avoid the brittle meanders completely, the weight of hoverbike after hoverbike would certainly be too taxing on the old, weathered cliffs. There were apaches stationed along the cliff’s edges, but with the hurtling speed and fragility of the hoverbikes, a falling rider would stand no chance.

The flight to Kerberos could be a life and death affair even before the final five candidates were chosen for further grooming.

Keith glanced left, towards his competitors. He was on the far edge of the lane, at the bottom of the pecking order. The most senior officers were in the middle to minimize drag. He could see some of his majors there, and Shiro amongst them, recognisable by his steely posture even with his helmet on. His ex-pilot was at the other end of the row, but his engineer was just beside him, sneering through the tinted visor of his helmet.

Dismissively, Keith turned his attention to the roads once more, feeling the strong winds tug at his hair. It was a bad day for newbies to fly. He almost pitied the novice fliers, because he’d wipe the floor clean of competition soon enough.

Beneath him, Alpha rumbled and purred, engine already warmed up and raring to go. “Here’s that second round I told you about a long time ago, Alpha.”

The competition was no competition at all, but a rematch: in the dark of night Keith vividly placed before him the frame of ace pilot Shirogane Takashi, broad silhouette blotting out the stars.

His earpiece crackled right on cue.

“All the best, Keith.” 

“Same to you, Shiro,” he shouted over the drone of the engines. “After this I’ll salute you for that godawful reply you gave me on the rooftop.”

A chuckle. “Fine by me. See you at the finish line.”

With the blast of a horn they were off. Alpha leapt forward, Keith nursing a smirk as he surged forward with the other experienced fliers. He was the only private here. 

Roughly six of them in front of him. Shiro was jostling carefully near the front. Keith swerved and cut someone off, slid into the tailwind of the other hoverbikes. _Patience yields focus._ He wanted to yank the handle back, chase after first position with everything Alpha had, but flying hoverbikes in line was never an easy task, let alone overtaking them. In this sweet zone the air was hotter, less dense, with less drag but more turbulence. It was a double edged sword that Keith wasn’t afraid to wield.

On the east, the familiar jagged rocks began to appear. The whine of Alpha’s engines reverberated against each rock as they passed.

In the unstable air currents a hoverbike shuddered, groaned, listed. Keith, ready and waiting, eased out of the way. The hoverbike careened to a halt, nose buried in the sand, thankfully westwards where the ground was relatively less dangerous. Its rider would be fine. Keith kept his eyes ahead and drove on. There was time for sympathy later.

For now, Kerberos waited, a faint dot of light at the distant edge of the universe.

The rider in front of him kept glancing sideways to look at the marooned hoverbike. An elementary mistake. Respect your hoverbike, and respect the road. Most of all respect your opponent. Keith angled his body low. With a metallic snarl, Alpha darted forward, almost scraping the wing of the other hoverbike.

It was a scare tactic, and it worked. The other rider let out a cry and braked hard, fell several lengths behind. Keith almost felt guilty, but chose not to. His mind was focused, razor sharp. _Kerberos,_ It was a basal thought that echoed, over and over and over, _Get to Kerberos._

The path turned again and Keith followed it without question, not wanting to risk a hidden rock rising from the sand to damage Alpha’s unprotected undersides. Rider in fourth place veered uncomfortably close, probably not used to taking such tight turns. Far too uncomfortably close. Keith forced the fear back, pressed forward.

By the rider’s mistake or his, their hoverbikes grated. Sparks flew angrily. Both machines keened from the impact, and Keith was forced to fall back and give way.

 _Patience yields focus._ Shiro’s words kept echoing at the most inopportune times, and for a brief moment he loathed what he had become: a risk-averse, double-guessing pilot. He searched for the steel in his core, nursed it, ground his jaws and pushed Alpha to its limit.

There was a brief shiver as Alpha strained to accommodate the abrupt shift in gear, then finally found its rhythm and zipped forward. Loose sand furled into the air behind him, barely managing to cut the fourth rider off on another tight turn. The rider, now fifth, swore audibly.

Ahead, three hoverbikes ran parallel to the cliff’s edge and left clouds of fine dust behind them. The first rider, then Shiro, then the third. Keith kept his eyes peeled for the sudden slope that he’d missed the first time, the one Shiro had taken —

Here it was. A small opening, more a ledge than a smooth slope. Keith took the risk, expertly hauled Alpha's engines to a stop, but instead of guiding Alpha to slow down he twisted the handles so Alpha lurched into full throttle. The abrupt change in acceleration and direction was a slap to the chest, but Keith gritted on. Alpha staggered, tensed, and then somehow found its way up and over the ledge. Behind him, pebbles clattered down the cliff face.

He didn’t see how Shiro had done it that time, but he wished he’d thought to ask. Shiro certainly made it much easier than Keith found it. After the punishing maneuver he had to give Alpha a chance to catch its breath, and only after Alpha had settled slightly could he slowly coax it back into a sprint. He re-overtook Fourth, then caught up with Third.

“Nice view up here,” he remarked, knowing Shiro would hear him through his earpiece. From his vantage point he saw Shiro steal a tiny glance over his shoulder, towards the cliff face. Keith almost wanted to wave, but he knew better.

_(Patience yields focus.)_

Because now he was borrowing Shiro’s routine, sending Alpha gliding off the plateau. Keith relished the feeling with every bone, every fleck of marrow. Wind tore at his hair, his lucky red jacket, surging in and around Alpha’s engines. He felt like a storm heralding lightning and thunder, while gales tore and ripped and howled like wolves. Suspended in time: this was where he truly felt like home.

All too soon the ground was rushing to meet him, tugging him down with jealousy. Keith fought it and Alpha fought it for him, a circular blast of pressurised air expanded in all directions to mark his landing.

The suddenly unstable air currents knocked Third, now Fourth, off balance.

Keith didn’t know he was smiling until he felt it fade, until he watched Fourth skid helplessly past him, towards the rider in front.

Towards Shiro.

Ahead of them, the edge of the cliff face loomed.

Keith’s blood turned to ice.

“Shi…” He could barely find his voice, he had to force the sound out of his throat, it felt like grit and sand and yesterday’s dinner and years of regret and hatred and everything new that he stood to lose. “Shiro! Watch out!”

It was late, just a little too late. Vainly Shiro tried pulling out of the way with a gasp and a strained grunt that Keith heard clearly through his earpiece. The lost hoverbike veered towards Shiro’s as its fragile metal body grated against the hard packed earth and sent sparks in all directions. With the cliff on one side and a vortex of confused air currents on the other, Shiro’s hoverbike skidded with nowhere else to go save the last strip of land that dropped away to nothing.

“Shiro!”

Blinded by sheer panic Keith urged Alpha on. It wasn’t the visceral call of Kerberos in his mind any longer, just an endless frayed static of _Shiro, oh god, Shiro, please, please._ A chopper lifted into the air, but Keith knew it’d be too late unless he did something.

He floored the acceleration. Shiro was drifting, his hoverbike at an almost unnatural angle. With the sudden disturbance the soft clay-like sand was driven up like smoke, disorienting and blinding, suffocating the hoverbike’s engines.

Keith killed one of Alpha's engines, using the dead engine as a pivot to turn. For a brief second, the simulated world of ice and snow flickered across his vision. No, he growled. This was not a simulation any more. Failure was _not_ an option.

For a long moment his good wing hung over the drop. It was a long way down, filled with solid spires of ancient rock, between them nothing but dried fragments of stone. Keith tugged harder. Alpha scrabbled, struggled. A final clatter of loose sand and they were finally on track again, both engines roaring.

Keith knocked his own wing against Shiro’s, jostling the bike away from the cliff face at last.

“Shiro! Talk to me!”

“Keith? Agh,” Shiro’s voice was tight. “You, what are — Are you _crazy?”_

Keith swallowed down a scream of fury, forced himself to remain calm, remain focused, god, Shiro needed him, any moment Shiro’s bike might falter and crash, Keith was all he had.

“Engines — Good? Broken?”

“Good, but can’t control them.” Shiro’s bike listed dangerously and Keith hurriedly pushed Alpha alongside the hoverbike, generating enough lift for both their wings. The straining hoverbike managed to right itself but only barely.

Shiro would’ve uttered some word of thanks, but he was too busy trying to get his hoverbike under control. Something was wrong with one of his engines and from the sound of it, stopping was out of the question. If hoverbikes needed one thing above all else it was a good, easy momentum before a brake. Emergency brakes were equally as big a risk as slamming headlong into a wall. Hoverbikes weren't the most dangerous one-person machine for no reason.

Before they knew it they were at the other end of the dustbowl, along the westward border. Similar to the eastward border, natural steps were cut into the cliff by years of erosion.

A cliff face, steep but not steep enough to kill someone from a fall, was perhaps what Shiro needed.

Keith sped ahead, quickly catching Shiro’s hoverbike in his tailwind. “Come on. Up.”

They hurtled onto the rising plateau. Shiro sounded stressed and lost. “Keith? What are we doing?”

“You’re going to ride off this cliff with me.”

_“What?”_

“Kill your engines in the air, then push straight to highest gear. You’re going to land. It’s going to work.”

The cliff was almost upon them. Keith didn’t even look back. A few miles away, the gleaming building of the garrison waited. Blue lights dotted the path. Other competitors were catching up.

“Keith… Keith, come on, are you sure—”

“Just shut up and trust me,” he snapped. “Now jump!”

No more time. They were in the air. Shiro’s engines suddenly muted, and besides Alpha’s high-pitched keen, they were uncomfortably silent for a while too long.

They were suspended again, but this time it was as if he were trapped in a body too small, too helpless. Keith loathed it.

Finally, _finally,_ there was a low grumble and a snarl as Shiro’s hoverbike edged back to life. The drone of the engine sounded fuller now, without its previous tinny rattle. As Keith suspected, the blast of clean air flushed out whatever impurities in the delicate engines and restored them to full strength.

“Pull up and accelerate!” Keith yelled, yanking the handles of his hoverbike as he landed. It was rough; Alpha teetered as it hit the ground. Immediately, Keith turned to see Shiro’s bike catch its momentum and level out, safe.

Immediately he wanted to jump off, to check on Shiro and his hoverbike. He tugged on the brakes. “Shiro, are you—”

“Talk later. We’re still in this race. Hurry,” Shiro said, that firm commanding edge back again, and if Keith wasn't already fiercely familiar with the lilt of Shiro's voice he would have missed that subtle tremble. Shiro's bike roared past him.

Keith, responding on some instinctive level, jolted Alpha into gear without thinking and sped on after Shiro.

He studied Shiro’s silhouette before him, tried to imagine how Shiro was feeling after his brush with death, after being let down by Keith’s reckless antics. Tried to put himself in Shiro’s shoes, how it felt to set his sights on a great team only to be forced to give it up. Tried grappling with the idea of losing Shiro for real.

But Shiro was here — Shiro, still unhurt. Still unbroken.

Still refusing to give up on him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Shiro suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at Keith.

Keith, mouth dry, could only nod.

He rode, uncomfortably content in the smooth wake of his leader’s tailwind, back to the garrison, where he disappeared into the hangar while Shiro received a hero’s welcome home.

 

 

Despite all the odds, Shiro made it in fifth.

And Keith was disqualified.

The only reason why Keith hadn't immediately been suspended was because Shiro had shielded him close with his wing. Keith had only been subjected to the rough words of seven majors for the span of two hours; Shiro remained in the board room with all the staff for the better part of the night _and_ morning, leaving Keith to wait anxiously outside on one of the flimsy plastic chairs.

When Shiro finally returned, Keith hadn’t the courage to meet his gaze. He’d squandered everything Shiro had given him, and then nearly gambled away Shiro’s life, too. 

Keith stood. “Shiro, I’m really sorry—”

But Shiro only snatched him up in a fierce hug, crushing him to his chest. Keith’s breath caught, almost afraid to move, fighting the urge to stiffen and push Shiro away at the same time.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you from the start,” Shiro murmured, and Keith would’ve struck out with anger if he had any left to burn.

“Why are you apologising?”

Shiro pulled away, visibly wrestling with a whirlwind of emotion Keith couldn’t possibly hope to understand the depth of. Dark rings scoured the skin beneath his eyes. Keith bowed his head. There was a smear of dirt on Shiro's riding suit.

“Shiro… thanks. Really.” His voice came out meek. _Thanks for sticking up for me, because nobody else would do it otherwise. Thanks for making it out alive. Thanks for… thanks for…_

The subject of the Kerberos launch hovered on the edge of every word, dying to be dragged into the light.

“It’s been a long day,” murmured Shiro, reaching out to squeeze Keith’s shoulder.

Keith drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he agreed. “A really long day.”

 

 

Their room was still, quiet, peaceful. Amongst the tiny, insignificant pieces of their lives, Keith got changed and settled on the cheap couch they’d pirated from one of the abandoned lounges.

Shiro joined him moments later, and the couch creaked to accommodate both their weights. Shiro’s shoulder was a soft, warm patch against him. And on the upholstery between them Shiro’s hand rested, palm up, patient in the way only focus could be.

 _I’m sorry, Shiro,_ Keith wanted to say, _I don’t know what came over me. I don’t know why I did what I did._

 _I’ve already lost Kerberos,_ Keith wanted to say, _Can I please not lose you too?_

Of course all Keith could do was smile, crooked and lopsided, because of the strange happiness that both healed and flayed him. 

There was still a year of training to go, but even before it started, Keith knew one day the sanguine, press-conference pleasantness of Shirogane Takashi would grace television screens all around the world. Shiro was going to continue climbing the ranks as he’d always dreamed. Shiro was going to become the world’s best sojourner, extending humanity’s reach into the cold nothingness of space. And Shiro would bring home glory enough for them both.

“It’ll only be a year,” Keith said into the silence.

Shiro turned to him, surprised, then almost gasped when Keith slid his fingers between Shiro’s and gave a light squeeze.

Keith didn’t know what kind of expression he was making, but it was making Shiro’s expression fray. A brief silence stewed before Shiro finally replied, voice thick with something that made Keith's heart twist, “A year can still be deceptively long.”

The fingers around his hand tightened but in the most gentle way, as though if Shiro held Keith any more firmly Keith would splinter and fragment into dust. It was such an affectionate gesture, a world of difference from Shiro’s usual boisterous displays of care that Keith couldn’t help but smile again.

No longer were his sights fixed on Kerberos, but a different kind of planetary force; one that reflected his own humanity back at him, reminded him what it meant to be alive, to make mistakes and to learn, to love and not hate.

Focusing on Shiro’s hand in his, he tethered himself to it, lost himself in the visceral reality of it, and let go of the the distant pixelated blob at the outermost edge of the solar system.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> (If you still don't hate me yet you can shout at me on [twitter ](https://twitter.com/k_uill) where I cry about robot space gays and petition for Voltron to be banned)


End file.
